


Action Is Our Covenant

by Selador



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: BAMF Peter Parker, Creepy Norman, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Homeless Peter Parker, Hydra (Marvel), Jewish Peter Parker, Judaism, Minor Character Death, No Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, No character bashing, Peter Parker Whump, Peter is still like 15, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-HYDRA Reveal, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Violence, Timeline What Timeline, may dies, mostly MCU focused but pulls from comics and Spider-Man PS4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-10-10 00:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17415389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selador/pseuds/Selador
Summary: When May dies in an accident, Mr. Osborn is nice enough to take Peter in. Or that's what Peter thinks, at first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I update tags as I go.
> 
> Edit: previously "Faith of Actions" but i didnt like it so i did a change

Afterwards, Peter will wake up in the Osborns’ guest bedroom believing he had a nightmare.

For a few brief, blissful moments, it will be not unlike any other morning where he wakes up at Harry’s after staying too late for homework or video games. Such an occurrence happens infrequently, as both Harry and Mr. Osborn can call a driver to take Peter home at any hour. He will know where he is and will have respite before memories like sunbeams pierce through the fog of his mind bringing the events of the days prior into terrible, cruel clarity.

Peter is in class when the school’s secretary announced over the intercom, _“Peter Parker, please come to the Principal’s office. Bring your belongings.”_

Jeers and snickers erupt in the classroom, Peter exchanging a baffled look with Ned and Harry before shoving his books into his bag.

“Blow up the chemistry labs again, Parker?” asks Cindy.

“ _No_ ,” says Peter, a touch too defensively, but that only happened _once_ when he experimenting with the web fluid formula. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Go on, Peter, you’re holding up the class,” chides the teacher.

“Sorry, Ms. Cobbwell,” he mumbles, hunching his shoulders as he ducks out of the classroom.

Admittedly, there are a lot of reasons for Peter to be called to the Principal’s office: frequent tardiness, missing homework, tests to make-up, make-up tests to make-up… Spider-Man really hasn’t been good for his school work.

Peter isn’t worried yet.

That changes when he steps into the front office. The school nurse, Ms. Arrow, and the principal’s assistant, Kelly Cox, are standing by the Principal’s office door, faces distressed and solemn. Upon seeing him, Kelly raises her hands over her mouth, eyes tearing up, and Peter knows.

“What happened?” Peter asks, world rushing around him to a narrow point. He knows. He knows.

“Mr. Parker,” says Principal Morita in his doorway. “Your aunt’s been in an accident.”

Ms. Arrow crosses the room to pull Peter into a hug.

“She was in a car accident,” he hears, over the din of white noise. “She’s in the hospital. Kelly here will drive you.”

They guide him to the parking lot and into Kelly’s car.

“Don’t worry, Peter,” says Principal Morita, “everything will be alright.”

He’s wrong, of course.

Very wrong.

…

Kelly remains at his side until she doesn’t, and then he’s alone in the hard, plastic chair of the ICU’s waiting room.

Time passes. His phone rings.

_Ned._

He rejects the call without a second’s thought.

Ned calls a few more times. Messages more than a dozen times.

Peter opens his messages, fingers hovering over the keypads, and fails to know what to say.

The screen goes black before he can decide, and he takes the sign for what it is. He puts his phone away.

“Peter Parker?”

Peter looks up. It’s the nurse. Or doctor. He can’t remember.

She opens her mouth, and words come out. He hears them, he knows he does, because his world crashes around him for a reason.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, sitting next to him. Her hands are folded on top of her crossed legs, which is all Peter can see from how he’s bent over in his chair. “Is there anyone we can call? Any family? Friends?”

“What happened to the guy that hit her?” he asks. If he made it and Aunt May didn’t…

The doctor just looks so sad. “He overdosed behind the wheel. He didn’t make it either.”

Oh.

An aching, cavernous emptiness is all he can feel; Peter wraps his arms around himself to hold it in.

He shakes his head, and then thinks, _Ned_ , and Ned’s threadbare clothes, and secondhand books, and the tiny apartment he, his mom, and his aunt all live in.

They couldn’t take him. They would if he asked, but they can’t afford another kid. Peter can’t ask them.

He could stay with them tonight, though. Peter opens his mouth, to tell the doctor that, when he hears, “Peter!”

The familiar but unexpected voice jolts Peter, and he doesn’t hide his shock as he watches Norman Osborn stride down the hallway to him. The doctor, also startled, stands up with a “Mr. Osborn!” as he pulls Peter up by the arm out of his chair and into a hug.

“I heard what happened,” Mr. Osborn says. “Terrible accident, absolutely terrible.” He pulls away, leaving his arm around Peter’s shoulders. Peter doesn’t speak; the show of affection and comfort is almost too much for him, and he doesn’t want to burst into sobs in front of Harry’s dad. “Have you heard…?”

The doctor, still standing nearby, clears her throat. “Yes, sir. His aunt didn’t make it.”

“Oh, no,” says Mr. Osborn, and Peter can’t keep it together, he starts crying with big, gasping sobs.

Mr. Osborn rubs his shoulder, pulling out a handkerchief and pressing it into Peter’s hands. Peter takes it, gratefully, realizing only after he’s gotten his tears and snot all over it that it’s _embroidered_ with Mr. Osborn’s initials.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Osborn, but how do you know this boy?” she asks. He doesn’t know what to do with the handkerchief now. Peter’s pretty sure he can’t just throw it out. He can’t hand it back to Mr. Osborn.

Does he… put it in his pocket? It’s _wet._

“He’s one of my son’s school friends,” he says. Making a decision, Peter shoves the handkerchief into his pants pocket. “Has it been decided where he will go for tonight?”

“Um, we were just discussing that…”

“Well, discuss no more. He’ll be coming home with us,” he says.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I can’t just let him go with you--”

“Yes, yes, I’ll deal with whatever paperwork needs to be filled out. Let’s make it quick, shall we? The boy just lost his only family, after all.”

A horrible, embarrassing noise comes out of Peter’s throat at that. Mr. Osborn’s hand grips his shoulder tight.

“Of--of course. Please, come with me.”

…

Mr. Osborn creates a flurry of activity around him wherever he goes, people moving around him to get him the paperwork to take Peter home with him. He tells Peter to sit down, orders a nurse to get him some water, and by the time Peter’s done with the drink, he’s back.

“All taken care of,” says Mr. Osborn with a smile. “Come on, let’s get you out of here. You must be feeling terrible.”

“Can I see her?” Peter says. Croaks, more like, with how rusty and rough his voice sounds after crying. “I--I want to see her.”

Mr. Osborn’s smile fades. “I’m sorry, Peter. But that’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?” he asks, voice breaking.

“The doctor didn’t recommend viewing,” he answers, and Peter breaks down all over again.

Somehow, he gets inside Mr. Osborn’s car, and he cries into his tailored, fancy suit that probably costs more than Peter’s tuition all the way to the Osborn residence.

The driver opens the door, and Peter spills out, standing in front of the large, intimidatingly impressive doors that has its own security and everything.

“Come along, Peter,” says Mr. Osborn, coming up next to Peter and guiding him forward with an arm around his shoulder.

It’s not something that Mr. Osborn has done before, but Peter appreciates the comfort. It’s hard to feel completely alone in the world when he’s in a walking in a one-armed hug.

“Mr. Osborn,” greets one of the security guards.

“Where’s Harry?” asks Peter.

“Asleep, I would hope. It’s 3 AM in the morning, Peter,” says Mr. Osborn.

Three in the morning… he left school just during third period. He was at the hospital for more than twelve hours.

They were operating on Aunt May for so long.

And she still didn’t make it.

“How did you know…?” begins Peter.

“Harry told me that you were called out of class and no one saw you later. I gave Jim--ah, Principal Morita, that is--a call to find out what had happened. I’m quite glad I did. Imagine what would have happened if I hadn’t been there to pick you up?”

Peter would have gone to Ned’s for the night. And then… he doesn’t know. “Thank you,” he says.

“Oh, think nothing of it. It’s the least I could do for a friend of Harry’s. We have plenty of room after all, and it’s not like I can’t afford it,” he answers easily. They step into the elevator which moves so quickly that Peter’s ears pop. He’s so congested, it’s rather painful.

He hasn’t swung around the city sick yet, if he can even get sick now. Peter wonders if this would happen if he did.

When they come to a stop, Norman waves him inside. “Come in, Peter, make yourself at home. You can have the room you’ve stayed in before. Do you remember where it is?”

Peter nods. He doesn’t.

Mr. Osborn either knew he didn’t or didn’t care about his response because he walks him to the bedroom anyway. “Try to get some sleep,” he says. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

And then he smiles, claps his hand on Peter’s shoulder again, and leaves down the darkness of the hallway. Alone, Peter goes into the bedroom and closes the door.

The room is immaculate, as is the rest of the Osborn residence. Peter doesn’t know how much their cleaners cost, and he doesn’t think he wants to.

He stares at the bed, at the room, at the bathroom, and thinks, _I need my toothbrush._

And he’s breaking down again, and this time he’s got the privacy and comfort to collapse.

So he does.

…

Later, he finds a new toothbrush, still in plastic, on the bathroom counter.

…

Peter wakes up late, eyes sore and crusty. Nauseated and achy, he realizes he’s super late for school.

No. His aunt just died. No one would expect him at school. He has to figure out what’s going to happen. He should call one of the other rabbis at May’s synagogue. They would know what to do. What the process is. What… what Peter needs to do…

Once May is buried, Peter can sit shiva. He wants nothing more than to hole himself away for seven days of mourning, to do nothing more than wallow in his grief and misery.

But Aunt May needs to be buried first.

He should get up.

He doesn’t get up.

Peter lies in bed, still fully clothed, until a knock on the door startles him.

“Peter?” calls out Mr. Osborn. _He’s still here?_ wonders Peter. “Are you awake? There’s food, if you’d like.”

The mention of food nauseates Peter. He doesn’t say anything. Mr. Osborn doesn’t call out again.

Peter stares out into the room, watching the light from the window change the shadows in the room for some time.

 _Aunt May needs to be buried,_ he thinks. It’s already been a day. He’s wasted so much time.

 _Aunt May needs to be buried_ , he repeats to himself, as he pulls himself out of bed. _I have to bury her._ Then he can mourn.

He gets up, and walks to the door. His clothes stick to him in uncomfortable ways. He needs to go home and get some fresh clothes.

Well. Mr. Osborn’s been nice, but Peter’s got to figure out what’s going to happen to him. There’s three more years until he’s eighteen and can live on his own.

 _Maybe I can stay here_ , hopes Peter. _They’ve got so much space, they won’t even notice me if I’m quiet._

He’s been here a few times, to hang out with Harry and to work on their lab project, but the layout confuses him every time. After going around in circles for a bit, Peter walks into the kitchen where, to his great surprise, Mr. Osborn is sitting with a mug of coffee and a laptop.

“Ah, Peter,” he says. “Here, come eat. You must be starving.”

Peter shrugs. “Not really.”

Mr. Osborn smiles. “Eat anyway.”

Peter sits down, and Mr. Osborn calls out to his cook. “Julie! Bring some breakfast out for Peter, would you?”  
  


Soon a steaming plate of eggs and toast is placed in front of him. “Thanks,” Peter remembers to mumble at the last second.

The smell is delicious, and Peter’s hungry, but his stomach revolts at the thought. He picks up the toast and nibbles at it.

The toast tastes like nothing. Eating the toast takes too long, swallowing is difficult, and he just wants to put it down.

When there’s just the crust left, he puts it down. As he does, he notices that Mr. Osborn is watching him.

“Peter,” he says chidingly. “You should really try to eat more.”

“I’m not hungry,” Peter says.

Mr. Osborn sighs. “Very well. Let’s talk logistics, then.”

“I need the funeral to happen. Soon. Tomorrow, if possible,” says Peter. “I… I need to call the synagogue.”

Mr. Osborn frowns. “Peter, you can wait a couple days before dealing with that--”

“No,” Peter says. Realizing that he’s interrupted Mr. Osborn, he swallows painfully around the lump in his throat. “Sorry. But, for Jewish funerals, we try to have them as soon as possible. So then we can start the mourning process. I can’t… I can’t mourn until we’ve had the funeral.”

“Ah, right. Your Aunt May was a rabbi,” Mr. Osborn says. The past tense makes Peter wants to vomit. He’s quite glad that all he’s eaten was a bit of toast. “Very well. But don’t worry about it, Peter. I’ll make sure the arrangements are made.”

Suddenly, tears well up in Peter’s eyes. _No, please._ “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiles again. “I confirmed your absence with Principal Morita, of course.”

Peter nods. “Thank you.”

“Do you have any family you can call?” Mr. Osborn asks. “Any relatives you can ask to stay with?”

Shaking his head, he answers, “No. No, sir, I don’t. Aunt May is--was my only family left.”

People at the synagogue always said that they’re all one big family, but somehow, Peter doesn’t think that would extend to actually taking him in. Aunt May had some friends there, one of the other rabbis--Rabbi Hassan. She might help him. Somehow. Maybe she knows some Jewish foster families who could take him in.

God, a foster family.

Because Peter’s all alone now.

“Don’t worry about a thing, Peter,” says Mr. Osborn, smiling again. “I’ll take care of things.”

Relieved, Peter believes him.

…

After breakfast, Peter goes back to the bedroom, where he crawls into bed. He is there for five minutes or days before someone knocks on the door.

“Mr. Parker?” says an unfamiliar voice. “We’ve brought you your things from your house. May we come in?”

“Yeah,” says Peter, and three men come in, two of them carrying boxes. “What’s…?”

“Mr. Osborn requested we pick up some of your clothes from your residence,” says one of them. In a stupor, Peter watches them assimilate the items into the room in a flurry he can’t quite keep up with. The third steps forward and presents to him with a suit covered in plastic.

“For the funeral,” he says. “Please be ready and dressed in an hour,” and he leaves Peter alone.

The suit is nice, fits well, and probably costs more than Peter has ever touched. It is brand new and immaculate.

Mourners aren’t supposed to look immaculate. He searches through the clothes that was just delivered, and the suit is the only new item there. No ribbon.

Well, whatever. He shrugs off the jacket and carefully tears the lapel on the right side.

Pulling the jacket back on, he exits the room and wonders towards one of the entrances for the residence, hoping he’ll run into… well, anyone, really. He finds Mr. Osborn and Harry waiting in the parlor, both in their own black suits. Upon seeing him, Harry stops leaning against the wall. “Hey, Pete,” he says. “I’m, uh. I’m sorry about your aunt.”

Throat tight, Peter says, “Thanks, Harry.”

Mr. Osborn frowns at him. “You didn’t shower?”

Peter shrugs. He hadn’t, no.

“Is that a tear in your jacket?” Mr. Osborn demands, walking forward to examine the fabric himself. “Jesus Christ. Take that off, Pete, I’m sure something of Harry’s will fit you--”

“No,” says Peter. “I did that.”

Visibly annoyed, Mr. Osborn asks, “What?”

“It’s a tear for mourning a parent. A _keriah_ ,” Peter answers. “It’s a Jewish mourning thing.”

“Oh,” says Mr. Osborn. He smiles. “Of course. Do what you need to."

“Sorry,” says Peter, wanting to rid himself of Mr. Osborn’s disapproval. “I should have asked--”

“No, no, it’s alright. If it’s part of your people’s ways, then you must do it,” he says. “I’ve got a car waiting downstairs that will take us to the funeral. Are you ready, Pete?”

 _No._ “Yes.”

…

The burial service is at the cemetery, and nearly everyone is there. Peter knew he would cry at the funeral, but knowing that people were there for him and Aunt May evokes an outpouring of relieved tears.

“Pete,” says Rabbi Hassan, as she pulls him into a hug. “Thank God. I worried when I didn’t hear from you.”

“I’m fine. Mr. Osborn let me stay at his place,” says Peter. “Harry and I are friends at school, so…”

“Yes, that was very kind of Mr. Osborn. I was surprised to get a call from him personally,” she says, pulling him into the crowd. “I didn’t know you were friends with Harry Osborn?”

Peter shrugs. “Yeah. We’re lab partners. I’ve been over to his house a few times.”

“Ned isn’t your lab partner?” asks Hassan.

Oh, _crap._ He never messaged Ned back. “No, no--they were assigned, and I-- _shoot,_ ” he says, fumbling with his pockets for his phone. “I haven’t--I need to give Ned a call--”

Her hand grabs his arm. “Don’t worry, Petey. I called him,” she nods her head to the side, and Peter follows the line until he sees--

“Ned!” he says. “Ned!”

“Peter!” Ned says, running over to him. He gives Peter a tight hug. “Holy shit, dude, don’t do that! You left class, didn’t respond to any of my messages, and then I hear your _aunt’s_ dead--!”

“Ganke. Show some respect,” says Ned’s mother, Min-Ji. She wears a black _hanbok_ , which Peter has only seen once before when Ned’s father passed away. “Peter, we’re so sorry for your loss. Where have you been staying? Not alone at your house, I hope.”

“No, I--Mr. Osborn’s been letting me stay with him and Harry,” Peter says.

Her forehead creases with confusion. “He has? Why?”

“He’s just being nice,” says Peter. “I’m friends with Harry.”

“Peter, I called you a bazillion times yesterday,” Ned says. “Why didn’t you answer?”

“I wasn’t feeling up to it,” says Peter. “I--I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s alright,” says Ned. “I was just worried about you, dude. You left and didn’t come back and there were all sorts of rumors.”

“Well, they can shut up now. It’s just my _aunt_ who’s _dead_ , after all,” says Peter, bitter. “Nothing juicy about that, is there.”

“Peter!” exclaims Min-Ji. “Don’t speak about your aunt like that!”

Peter ducks his head down while mumbling, “Sorry, sorry.”

“Peter!” he hears, and he turns to other members of the shul and lets himself get lost in the fog of mourning and the never ending stream of condolences. He nears the casket at some point and sees that it’s closed as is the norm with Jewish tradition, but he remembers Norman’s words. _They don’t recommend viewing…_ he remembers, and tries not to think what his beautiful aunt must look like in there. Alone, in the dark, for the rest of eternity.

He stands there until someone takes him by the shoulders and guides him into a seat, and Rabbi Hassan leads them into the mourner’s kaddish. Peter barely remembers to say _amen_ at the appropriate places.

Rabbi Hassan led his uncle’s funeral too. She had said to May that she shouldn’t have to be the one to do it.

That was only a year ago. In the span of just a year, Peter has lost his parents all over again.

Rabbi Hassan stops talking. Peter stews for a moment in confusion when she leaves the stage to push a lever.

Then the coffin begins to lower into the ground, and he’s no longer confused.

Time passes at an excruciating pace during the descent. Peter thinks it will never reach the bottom, that he will be trapped in this moment forever, that maybe this really is a horribly nightmare, and he’ll wake up in his bed.

The coffin hits the bottom of the hole with a dull _thud._ Peter wonders with a jolt that almost forces him to his feet that in Jewish tradition, family members are expected to throw the first dirt onto the casket.

Does he go up? Are people really expecting Peter to go up all alone to throw the symbolic dirt onto the casket of what was his last remaining family?

Peter doesn’t want to do it. He doesn’t want to go up there. He doesn’t want to be reminded that his family is all gone and buried, and there’s no one left in the world who will call him family now.

He doesn’t want to bury his only family.

Rabbi Hassan appears before him. “Come on, Pete,” she says, holding out her hand.

Oh, thank god. He won’t have to go up alone. Peter takes her hand, and they walk up to the grave together.

It’s right next to Ben’s grave. And just a few feet away, his parents.

He only did this last year.

“Would you like me to do it with you?” murmurs Rabbi Hassan. They’re at the hole.

He nods. They both get a couple of shovels. Peter shovels up some dirt and throws it into the hole.

_Thud._

Rabbi Hassan shovels up some dirt and throws it into the hole.

_Thud._

And they return the shovels and in the silence of the service, Peter returns to his seat while the workers fill up the rest of the grave.

And that’s it.

Aunt May is gone and buried.

“Peter? Peter.”

Harry’s shaking his shoulder. “Come on. The service is over. We’re heading to the synagogue.”

Peter shakes his head and doesn’t get up.

“Peter?” Harry repeats. “Ned, can you--?”

“Peter, it’s time to go,” says Ned now, “There’s a reception at the synagogue.”

“I want to go home,” says Peter. “Just let me go home.”

“Can you even go home?” asks Harry. “Oh, shit--I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“Thanks a _lot_ ,” Ned says. “Peter, I’m sure you can go if you want, but don’t you want to go to the reception?”

Peter shakes his head again. “No, I’ve--I’ve done this too many times, I just _want to go home.”_

“It’s okay, Peter,” says Mr. Osborn. “We can leave. Let’s go.”

Peter gets up, and leaves the cemetery with Mr. Osborn’s hand tight on his shoulder like a tether to the world.

…

Peter wakes up in the Osborns’ guest bedroom believing he had a nightmare.

He did not have a nightmare, but he is now sitting shiva. Staying in bed for as long as he wants is perfectly acceptable.

He’ll get up when people come by to sit shiva with him.

…

Peter dozes in and out and only gets up when he feels gross enough to need a shower and so hungry that he feels nauseated.

Last time, after Ben died, he and May laid in bed together while crying and watching bad movies. They got up to eat and shower when their friends came over, and there was almost always someone knocking on their door, with roast or chocolates or salad. Some people even volunteered to help tidy up the house so they wouldn't have to.

Why did he have to do this again? Why them?

How is he supposed to get through this without May?

Clean for the first time since he got the news, he leaves the guest bedroom. Stepping out the door, he’s surprised by the lack of noise. He expected… he expected people to be there. Mourners from his shul to sit shiva with him.

He thought people would be there.

The quiet of the apartment instills a nervous foreboding in Peter. It’s too still. There is no group of mourners waiting for Peter to join them.

He can’t tell if anyone is around at all, the air is so still.

Panicking, Peter races around the needlessly huge residence--seriously, _who needs this much space_ \--trying to find _anybody_ because he can’t really be _alone_ while sitting shiva--

\--and comes to halt in the dining room, where Mr. Osborn sits with a cup of coffee and his laptop.

“Peter?” he asks. “What’s wrong? Why were you running?”

“Oh, uh,” says Peter. “Um. Sorry, I was just--” He looks around. Only Mr. Osborn is in the room. “Where’s Harry?”

“He’s at school, of course.”

“Oh. Right.” He clears his throat. Mr. Osborn waits, waving a hand for him to continue. “Where is--I mean, where is everyone else?”

Mr. Osborn raises his brow. “Everyone else?”

“Yeah, it’s--” He clears his throat again. He hopes he doesn’t start crying. “People are supposed to come mourn with you. During shiva.”

“Are they?” asks Mr. Osborn. Face surprised and mildly polite, in no way reflecting the panic thrumming through Peter. “No one’s been by.”

“Are you sure? Maybe--maybe they don’t know where I’m staying, I can call Rabbi Hassan--” His words choke off as Mr. Osborn’s expression morphs to pity.

“I told Rabbi Hassan that you’re staying here,” he tells Peter gently.

“But--but then they should be here,” protests Peter. Mr. Osborn’s pity does not end, and Peter can’t stand to look at him. He fixates on Mr. Osborn’s hands, which are resting intertwined on the table. “They should be sitting shiva with me so I’m not--” _all alone_ , he doesn’t finish. Voicing it is too hard. His throat tightens and his eyes grow hot, and he thinks, _Don’t cry._ Please _don’t cry._

“Pete,” says Mr. Osborn, pushing his laptop closed. “No one’s come by.”

“Oh,” says Peter. “That’s--oh.”

No one has been by to sit shiva with him. To _mourn_ with him. That’s… that’s…

A wave a dizziness makes him sway. Mr. Osborn stands up.  
  
“Peter? Are you alright?”

He shakes his head.

Mr. Osborn pushes him into a chair. “Here, have some water.”

Hand shaking, Peter puts the glass to his lips and drinks. It tastes sour, initially, but he realizes that he hasn’t brushed his teeth in a while. Naturally, while sitting in front of his friend’s father and the CEO of a major biotech corporation, he spills water on his shirt.

“There, that’s better,” says Mr. Osborn. “You should also eat. I’ll have something brought out for you.”

“They’re supposed to be here,” says Peter. “They’re--they’re supposed to be here for me.”

“We’re here for you, Peter,” says Mr. Osborn. He rubs his hand on Peter’s shoulder, not stopping even when tears begin to fall onto the table. “Me and Harry. We’ll help you through this. It’ll be alright.”

No. Nothing will ever be alright again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter settles in at the Osborns'. Then things escalate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the title of this story changed.
> 
> I add tags as I go. Relevant warnings for this chapter are: sexual molestation, sexual abuse, child molestation, child abuse, child death, and depictions of violence.

Seven days pass too quickly and too slowly. Peter stays at the Osborns’ because no one suggests otherwise, and he can’t stand the idea of returning to an empty house alone.

Harry still has school, but he awkwardly knocks on Peter’s door afterwards and asks if he wants to play a video game or watch a movie. After that first couple mornings, Mr. Osborn comes and goes, but he swings by Peter’s room to make sure he’s eaten.

And while he doesn’t comment if Peter hasn’t showered, his nose scrunches up in disgust, which is more than enough to get Peter to hop in the shower. So he eats and bathes regularly during the week.

Despite Mr. Osborn’s offer to sit shiva with him, neither one of the Osborns know what sitting shiva is supposed to be like. He still spends the majority of his time alone. He still is too grateful for any company at all to tell them so.

Their absence allows him to easily sneak out as Spider-Man during either night or day. If he has nothing else, he has Spider-Man. Peter can do some good in the world as long as he has Spider-Man.

Going out as Spider-Man is a short reprieve; initially, his anger at the drunk driver fuels him into hitting harder and faster, but it wanes into grief that numbs him and only slows him down.

So after seven days, Peter gets up for school.

He finds Harry waiting in the parlor, playing a game on his phone. Harry looks up as Peter enters the room, and his eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, hey, Peter. How are you…” He trails off. “You could probably stay out of school for another week. No one’s expecting you back.”

The last thing Peter wants to do is more time with his thoughts. “I want to go to school.”

Harry gives him a look like he’s crazy but shrugs. “Whatever, man.” Peter flinches, and so does Harry. He grips his phone tightly and is holding it against his chest. “Sorry, Peter. This is--I’m really sorry, dude.”

“I know,” says Peter, voice too hoarse. He can’t cry before school. “It… yeah.”

“Dad’s going to let you stay here,” says Harry. “I know he’s been working on it.”

“I--” There are no words for how that makes Peter feels. Not quite surprised but relieved all the same. “Thanks.”

Harry smiles at him a bit weakly, stares at him a bit too long, before returning to his phone game.

When the driver comes up to collect the two of them, Peter remains quiet on the ride to school.

…

School is hell. Too many stares, too many whispers, following Peter through the hallways until he either wants to punch something or run away.

By the time lunch rolls around, Peter gives into the temptation to put on his suit, and swing far, far away from school and his life.

…

By the time he returns to OsCorp’s tower, the streetlights are on, and Peter belatedly realizes that he might be in trouble. It’s unlikely though--who’s going to bust him for cutting class? Or being out too late? Even if the school knew he was staying with the Osborns, Peter can’t imagine shy and quiet Kelly Cox calling Mr. Osborn to let him know.

And, even if all of that _did_ happen, why would Mr. Osborn care? Peter’s not his kid, and Mr. Osborn is a busy, busy man.

So it is to Peter’s greatest surprise to find Mr. Osborn sitting in the parlor. “Ah, Peter! So kind of you to join me. Here, sit, sit.”

The jovial welcome unpleasantly jars Peter’s expectations. He sits down without complaint.

Mr. Osborn frowns at him, and reaches out to his face. “What happened here?”   
  


“I, uh… it was a pigeon,” says Peter. He tenses as fingers carefully prod a bruise on his cheek. An uncomfortable sensation prickles along his skin, and his cheek burns where Mr. Osborn’s fingers touched it.

Mr. Osborn blinks as he leans back into his chair. “A pigeon.”

“Flew right into my face,” Peter tells him. He can’t tell if Mr. Osborn believes him.

“Well, then,” he says, bewildered. “Perhaps this rogue pigeon wouldn’t have had the opportunity to attack you if you hadn’t cut class?”

Peter flinches. “I dunno, pigeons seem to have it out for me.”

“Peter,” chastises Mr. Osborn.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he is. “It... just got all too much for me at school,” he tells Mr. Osborn honestly. “Everyone was staring and whispering, and I couldn’t take it.”

“So you skipped school,” says Mr. Osborn, much more coolly than Peter expected, “and spent the next nine hours… where?”

Peter squirms a bit on the couch. “Just around.” When Mr. Osborn’s expectant silence doesn’t end, he elaborates with, “Nowhere in particular, just… walked around the city.”

“I see.” His tone makes Peter look down. Aunt May’s hours had kept her from keeping track of Peter’s late night activities. His gut clenches anxiously. Mr. Osborn _seems_ calm, but… “Well, Peter. I’m sure you realize that your behavior today was unacceptable.”

Peter tries to say, “Yeah,” but finds that he can’t speak. Which is stupid. It’s just Mr. Osborn. There’s no reason for him to be freaking out like this. He nods instead.

“Going forward, you will be back here right after your school obligations end, and you most certainly will not cut class. I don’t want to get another call from Jim regarding your behavior at school. Is that clear?”

“I--yeah,” says Peter, stunned.

The quiet extends long enough that Peter looks up to Mr. Osborn staring at him. When their eyes meet, Mr. Osborn smiles faintly. “Good. Glad we cleared that up.” He stands up. “There’s food in the kitchen if you’re hungry, but then go to bed.”

He leaves, and Peter is left alone in the large parlor. Mr. Osborn’s departure left no time to question or argue the rules he just put into place. Anger bubbles in Peter’s gut, and he clenches his hands into the fabric of his pants.

Stupid. He shouldn’t have assumed he could stay out as late as he did with Aunt May and have no one noticed. Mr. Osborn has some of the best security in the world, only second to Stark Industries and SHIELD. He’d have to avoid not only the technological security measures, but also anyone who could report back to Mr. Osborn.

He could do it. Peter certainly wasn’t going to stop being Spider-Man. He’d just have be sneakier about it.

It’d be good practice.

He gets up and walks to his room. Peter wants to hit something or cry, and he’s leaning towards the former.

Harry is waiting by his room, and Peter slows down in the hallway when he spots him.

“Hey, Pete,” whispers Harry.

“Hey,” says Peter as he opens the door. “Wanna come in?”

Harry follows him inside. “Dude, where have you been? Dad was freaking out.”

Peter shrugs. “Just out. Did a lot of walking.” Biting his lips, he adds, “Is he like that a lot?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. I’ve never seen him that worried before.”

A warm feeling blossoms in Peter’s chest, when the implication hits and the look on Harry’s face tells him everything he needs to know. Peter turns his eyes away from Harry.

The silence is unbearable. Peter shifts, “So, uh... did you want anything?”

Harry says, “Oh, uh. Your friend cornered me at school. Told me to tell you to call him back, asshole.”

Peter’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “Yeah, okay. I’ll call him back.”

“Cool.” Harry hesitates. “I guess I’ll go.”

“Do you wanna--wanna play some video games before bed?” Video games were normal for Peter. And Harry, even if they weren’t close friends, was taking Peter’s sudden invasion of his home with aplomb.

“Yeah,” says Harry, looking relieved, “sure.”

…

Mr. Osborn keeps to his word. Either he or his driver calls Peter if he doesn’t show up right after school. Oftentimes, it’s Mr. Osborn.

“Please, call me Norman,” says Mr. Osborn, one afternoon with a smile. “You are living with us, after all. This is your home now.”

The attention Norman pays to his schedule prevents him from going out as Spider-Man except for after he goes to bed, when he can sneak out in costume. Initially, Peter was too scared of potential surveillance cameras and security measures spotting his comings and goings. It wasn’t until he managed to hack into the Osborn’s personal servers to view the buildings security details that he felt comfortable sneaking out.

He makes it work over the next several weeks. Peter tries not to resent the attention too much; Harry hides his jealousy as well as he can, but it’s obvious all the same. Norman favors Peter over Harry, excitedly pulling him down into his personal lab to discuss his company’s current scientific pursuits.

Peter won’t lie and say that it isn’t incredible. Norman is a _genius_. They spend hours talking about the strides OsCorp is making towards prosthetics and assistive medical devices. He asks for Peter’s thoughts and listens. Peter suggests a way for them to increase the efficiency of the power in one of the prosthetics, and Norman squeezes his shoulder and tells him he’s brilliant.

It’s the first time since Aunt May’s funeral that Peter feels like smiling.

Norman smiles back, hand still on Peter’s shoulder. “I think you ought to present this, Peter. OsCorp has demos planned with stakeholders and the public in a month. We’ll have you included in it.”

“Really?” exclaims Peter, voice embarrassingly high. “A month? But I could--I could do more than this--”

Norman’s laughter cuts him off. “How about I’ll key you into the lab so you can work on the prosthetic after school?” Peter trips over his words, trying to express to Norman how grateful he would be with that idea. “Oh, don’t thank me, Pete! A mind like yours needs practice to hone it properly. We already know,” he says, patting Peter on the head, “how much trouble you can get yourself into.”

Peter flushes, face hot. He stammers a protest, but Norman is walking away, talking about access codes and schedules and planning before he can even finish his sentence.

…

Peter works feverishly in the following month, conducting as many upgrades as he can think of to the prosthetic arm--and he can think of a lot.

For the first week, he spends so much time in the lab that he doesn’t have time to go out as Spider-Man, but he realizes that the timing is too suspicious and leaves him antsy and jittery. After he almost rips a door off its hinges at school when he’s not paying attention, he makes a point to leave enough time in the night to go out for patrol.

One night, as he’s leaving Norman’s lab, he finds Harry waiting for him. “Oh, hey, Harry.”

Harry scowls. “Where’s my dad?”

“Uh…” says Peter. “I don’t know?”

He frowns. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Wasn’t he in there with you?” He walks forward, pushing past Peter to see inside the lab. “ _Dad_! _Dad_?”

“He’s not here,” says Peter, “I just use the access code to get in.”

“He gave you the code?”

“Uh… yeah?” answers Peter. The surprise on Harry’s face quickly turns to anger.

“He’s never given _me_ the access code,” says Harry. “I’m not even allowed in his lab!”

“O-Oh…” he says because that thought never occurred to him. “That’s weird.”

“No, it’s not. Dad likes you more than me,” says Harry, simply stated as fact while Peter’s mouth drops open in shock. It would be funny, if there was even the slightest indication that Harry wasn’t completely serious.

“That can’t be true,” says Peter. “I’m sure Norman just--” He can’t think of an explanation for why Norman wouldn’t give his own son access to his home lab that isn’t that he doesn’t want to.

“Yeah,” Harry scoffs, after a few seconds of Peter’s silence. “Exactly. Dad took you in because he’d much rather have you as a son than me.”

“Harry, don’t--I’m sure your dad loves you,” Peter protests weakly. He can’t imagine--he just can’t imagine having a parent who didn’t love him.

“Loves me less than his projects. And his company,” Harry says. “Whatever. I’m going to bed.”

“Wait, Harry--” but what else is there to say? Harry leaves the room, not paying him any mind. Peter isn’t brave enough to knock on his bedroom door. He goes to his own bed, reviewing all of the time he’s spent with Norman and when he’s seen him involve himself with Harry.

He falls asleep still trying think of some.

…

After that, Peter throws himself into his project, well aware that the deadline is encroaching ever closer. He and Harry stop playing video games sometimes together after school; Peter’s too busy anyway. The presentation is going to be at the conference hall at OsCorp. Peter’s will be one of many, of course, but attendance at the conference will be in the thousands. The hall itself has a capacity of hundreds. The idea of speaking in front of a crowd like that terrifies him.

But it’s his _work._ Norman is giving him technology and opportunities Peter only dreamed about getting his hands on before. There’s so much he can _do_ now, that he couldn’t just by sneaking into his school’s lab after hours.

Fine-tuning the functions of the arm, as well as making a presentation within the time allotted to him, sucks up his free time. Which suits Peter just fine--the idea of hanging out with Ned like everything’s _normal_ tastes sour in his mouth. He wants to hang out with Ned more beyond class and lunches, he can’t find himself caring about legos or movies or video games.

Norman’s early curfew gives Peter a handy excuse to leave right after school or decathlon meets. Despite his initial shock, the rule has come in very handy. Peter can just go straight back to the Osborn’s and hole himself up in the lab. No one can bother him there or ask him how he’s doing. Even when Norman infrequently stops by he only ever asks about his work. It’s refreshing.

And when he’s working on his projects, Peter isn’t thinking about May. The only other time that happens is when he’s swinging around the city and fighting, so he works until he can’t anymore, then he goes out until he’s about to drop.

And he keeps on like that, until the presentation.

Peter has stared down guns, knives, blunt instruments of numerous types, and his knees shake as he stands on the podium to give his presentation.

They shake so hard Peter worries it’s visible. But he gets going, his voice gets stronger and he stands taller and his knees don’t shake. His rehearsals help, words falling out of his mouth by rout, though the details are lost in his memory.

He gets through it. Peter thinks he even did well. The audience applauds, and he shakily walks off the stage to where Norman stands.

“Well done, my boy!” says Norman, clapping him on the shoulder before pulling him into a hug. “That was fantastic, Peter,” he says as steps away to hold Peter at arm’s length. “I had high expectations for you, but that was even better than I hoped!”

Peter smiles so wide he think it’ll crack his face in half. “I’m so glad,” he says, “I was so nervous.”

“Yes, but you quickly gained confidence,” Norman says. They walk down the steps at the side of the stage, and Peter finds himself shaking hands with young, dark-haired man in glasses dressed sharply in a blue suit.

“That was remarkable,” the man says. “And you’re only in high school?”

“Peter attends school with my son,” says Norman. “I have no doubt that he’ll be the leading scientific mind of his generation.”

“Oh, of course,” says the man, “Mr. Osborn, have you had a chance to look over my employer’s proposal?”

“I have, yes,” says Norman. “I’d be happy to discuss it with him soon, James, if you would kindly set up a meeting with my assistant.”

The man smiles, and Peter hears him agree before he’s distracted shaking hands with another audience member who asks him about his work.

“Dr. Cho,” says the Asian woman who asks him how he determined which receptors needed to be rerouted during the Q&A. She hands him a card. “Stark Industries would be ecstatic to help a mind like yours develop. Prosthetics and bionics is our fastest developing department.”

“O-oh, thank you,” Peter says, “but I like working with Mr. Osborn.”

“Peter! Come meet Dr. Vemulakonda,” says Norman, pulling Peter away. “Rajiv does exciting work with genetics. He and Dr. Connors have been discussing a joint trial, in fact.”

“Oh! You co-authored a paper with Dr. Connors recently!” exclaims Peter. “Can I--can I ask you some questions about it?”

Hours pass while Peter talks to some of the greatest scientific minds _ever_ and by the time the demo ends he’s beyond exhausted. Peter crawls into the car after Norman and sprawls out on his seat, closing his eyes.

He dozes off during the ride, woken up when the car comes to a complete stop in front of their building. Peter lets himself out of the car and follows Norman into the building, where security greets them with a “Mr. Osborn” and a nod.

“A rousing success, I would say,” says Norman as the elevator takes them all the way up to their apartment. When the elevator dings softly and the doors open, Norman walks them forward with a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “This calls for celebration, I say. How about a drink, Pete?”

“What?” asks Peter, startled.

“How about a drink?” says Norman, enunciated clearly and smiling. Already pouring a drink. “It wouldn’t do not to celebrate at all, would it?” He hands Peter a cold glass. Peter stares at it while Norman fixes himself a drink. He sits next to Peter, smiles again, and says, “Cheers,” clinking their glasses and taking a sip.

Peter follows suit.

It tastes bad. Peter coughs and tries not to.

Norman chuckles. “It’s an acquired taste. You’ll get used to it.”

“My aunt said that too,” Peter blurts. “She sometimes let me have a sip of her wine during Passover. I always hated it.” He stares at his glass, unable to meet Norman’s eyes when he feels like crying. “I miss her.”

“Well,” says Norman, “you have me now.”

“I--” Peter says, looking up, a cold prickle going down his spine that was entirely unrelated to his spidey sense at Norman’s tone. “What?”

“I _said,_ you have me now. Your aunt’s _dead_ , and you never would have flourished with her like you will with me.”

The words stab like knives into Peter’s chest, and he gasps, trying not to cry. Norman’s face is hard and cold, unmoved by Peter’s reaction to his words, and the longer he stares the greater his desire to flee.

Peter doesn’t move. He can’t move. Terror keeps him frozen in place, so Norman doesn’t need to grip his shoulder painfully tight to keep him in place as he presses forward, but he does so anyway.

Norman’s lips are against his, and everything about it hurts, his skin burning and his teeth aching and his thoughts racing as he remembers every touch the past several weeks every moment that rubbed him the wrong way every minute of attention Norman gave him all because Norman wanted _this._

Peter thinks he’s going to be sick.

“Now, don’t do anything stupid, Pete,” says Norman, after he’s pulled back. His hand is still on his shoulder, no longer tight but still painful. “Not only will no one believe you, but you’ll throw away your whole future. And you have so much promise, Pete. You could be amazing, if only you let me help you.”

Peter swallows. It’s hard to breathe.

“Do you understand, Pete?” Norman asks. It’s not a question. It’s a reminder.

Peter’s lost his parents twice over. And with May, his only connection to Judaism, gone, even his shul abandoned him. Like everyone did.

He has no one. No one. He could run, and then what? Peter needs to go to school. He needs money. He needs a place to live.

The Osborn residence was just becoming home.

He thinks of his conversation with Dr. Cho and Dr. Vemulakonda, both of their cards sitting in Peter’s wallet along with many others’. He thinks of the nerve-wrecking excitement of presenting his scientific findings. And, easily, he envisions himself working in the field of bionics to help humanity for his entire career.

All of that, gone in an instant without Norman.

 _It won’t be that bad_ , Peter tells himself. He doesn’t say anything, but Norman must see his acceptance on his face, for he repeats, “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Osborn,” he says, mouth dry. “I understand.”

He chuckles. “I knew you were a smart one, Pete,” and leans over him again. Peter closes his eyes in the attempt to make it better, but only ends up fixating on Osborn’s hot breath on his face and fingers digging into his chin--

“ _Dad!_ ”

\--and Harry is there, pushing them apart. “ _Dad_ , what are you _doing_?”

Peter catches himself from falling back onto the couch, staring at Harry’s back. “WHAT--” yells Harry, voice rising in volume as he pushes his father’s chest, “--ARE YOU _DOING?”_

“Harry,” Osborn grits out, “this is not the _time--_ ”

“--why were you _kissing_ Peter--!”

“--go to your room and stay _there--_ ”

“--not until you explain what you were doing--”

“--be quiet--”

“--he’s my _age,_ Dad, I knew you were disappointed in me but I never thought it was because you wanted _a son you could FUCK_!”

“BE QUIET!” Osborn roars, picking Harry up by the shirt and throwing him across the room.

Harry hits a bookshelf with a horrible crack that Peter will hear in his nightmares.

“Harry!” he shouts, his limbs finally responding to his desire to _move_ to go check on Harry.

There is blood on the floor under Harry, but he ignores it to kneel beside him. Peter puts his fingers on Harry’s neck and feels nothing.

“Is he okay?” Osborn calls out, still standing by the couch.

Breath coming faster, Peter leans down to listen to Harry’s chest in a desperate attempt to hear his heartbeat.

Shakily, Peter says, “There’s no pulse.”

Osborn steps back. “No… no, I… I didn’t mean to…”

A drop falls onto Harry’s neck, and Peter realizes that he’s crying. He wipes his face roughly with his sleeve, and sniffles. Harry’s eyes gaze blankly up to the ceiling, and Peter can’t stand it. He closes them, and it’s the worst thing he’s ever had to do.

Hand shaking, he digs his fingers into Harry’s shirt, as if it would somehow bring him back to life. He should stopped Harry. He should have separated him from his father. He should have _caught_ him. If only he wasn’t sitting uselessly on the couch, unable to act. His uncle would be so disappointed in him. His _aunt_ would be so disappointed in him.

_This is all my fault._

“This is all your fault.”

Moments drag by as Peter fails to process that those words were spoken out loud, and were not his thoughts. “What?”

“This is _your_ fault,” repeats Osborn, standing straight and still and so, so angry. “Harry only interfered because it was you. You should have left him alone.”

Peter sits back, unsure what is happening. “But I--”

“If you hadn’t caused so much trouble,” continues Osborn, voice rising, “we wouldn’t have been here in the first place! Here I am, offering you a home, a future, and _meaning_ and you hem and haw over it like a dullard!”

Peter gaps at Osborn wordlessly, scrambling back away on the floor and Osborn walks forward.

“Of course, an urchin like you wouldn’t know gratitude if it slapped you in the face! You and that aunt of yours would have been happy to squander that intelligence of yours!” Osborn pauses as he reaches Harry. His face softens for just a moment, before contorting into rage. “After everything I’ve done for you! You’re just like your aunt! She hated me the moment I walked into her office and refused my offer to take you on as an intern! That fucking, ungrateful _bitch_!”

Osborn pushes a glass cabinet display case out of his way. It falls, shattering on impact. “You Parkers and your fucking righteousness!” He picks up a lamp and throws it out Peter who flinches out of the way even though it misses by a mile. “YOUR AUNT SHOULD HAVE AGREED WHEN SHE HAD THE CHANCE!”

The icy, freezing horror Peter feels is wiped out by a burning realization so terrible that it makes him feel ill. “Did you kill Aunt May?”

“I got you away from her,” says Osborn, denying nothing. “I gave you an opportunity, Pete. I saw your potential. Your aunt wanted you to go work for some,” he waves his hands, “ _non-profit._ She said that she didn’t think you could do _good_ at OsCorp.” Lips curling, Osborn spits, “That dumb _bitch._ ”

“You killed Aunt May,” Peter says softly.

Osborn takes in a deep breath.

“Get up. You look ridiculous on the floor,” he says, smoothing out the front of his suit. “Go to your room. I’ll tell you when you can come out again.”

Peter doesn’t move. “You killed Aunt May.”

Osborn sneers. “Oh, and what? You haven’t been enjoying all the luxuries you’ve been receiving? Access to my lab? Working on your own projects? Because you certainly have lapped up everything I’ve given you without pause. Every scrap of attention, every word about OsCorp’s developments. You certainly got over your aunt’s death pretty quick, didn’t you?”

The words are meant to cut, but Peter can barely hear him. His entire body is shaking, and he can’t feel his limbs. “You did. You killed my aunt.” And Peter had no one to grieve with. No one to grieve with because-- “You didn’t let my shul sit shiva with me.”

“No, of course I didn’t, you idiot,” says Osborn. “I went through all that trouble, didn’t I? Why the hell would I arrange for something as banal as _murder_ if I was just going to let one of those clucking hens snatch you up? It’d be so much trouble to get you away from one of _them_ , too.”

“But they wanted to,” says Peter. “They wanted to and--and you didn’t let them. You made me grieve all by myself.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen next, Pete,” says Osborn. “You’re going to go to your room. You’re going to stay there until I’ve taken care of everything out here. Then we’re going to go over the rules because clearly you need strict instructions and oversight.”

“No,” says Peter, now standing. “No, I’ll--I’ll tell them what you did, and--”

“And what?” demands Osborn. “No one will believe the word of a fifteen-year-old kid. Not against a man like _me._ ”

“Rabbi Hassan would,” Peter says, certain.

“Well, Pete,” says Norman, in sarcastic surprise, “after what happened to your aunt, I didn’t think you would so recklessly throw more lives away.”

Peter screams and leaps.

They fall to the floor, and Peter doesn’t think as he pounds his fists against Osborn’s face, again and again and again and again. Osborn’s face becomes a bloody mess and there are wet drips of blood and tears on Peter’s when his hands reach up and grab Peter’s wrists with enough strength to break them.

He screams again, this time in pain, as he’s thrown off.

Peter hasn’t broken a bone since before he became Spider-Man, and the implications of that don’t set in until Osborn stands back up, jaw hanging down, broken, and face so bloody as to make his individual features indiscernible.

With horror, Peter watches Osborn grab his own jaw and shove it back into place. He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the blood from his face, revealing that the damage Peter did to him is already gone.

“You really think I haven’t been working on my own projects, Pete?” says Osborn, smiling and smiling and smiling. “Maybe you’re not that smart, after all.”

Peter scrambles away, guts coiling in disgust and terror, and his spidey sense firmly telling him to flee.

With Osborn’s blood on his fists and Harry’s on his knees, he does.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His life as Peter Parker is over.

Peter runs. The Osborn residence takes up an entire floor at the top of the building, and windows that take up the entire walls illuminate the rooms as Peter runs to where he knows there aren’t cameras, but he doesn’t have his webslingers and Osborn is following him--!

He crashes into the door for the stairs, hurriedly pulling it open and slamming it shut. Peter turns the lock until it breaks, and then he leaps over the railing and drops down the stairs.

A loud crash echoes above him. Peter doesn’t look back.

He crashes into the stairway’s exit, dashing through the first floor of the building. People scream around him, and a few of the security guards attempt to grab him, but Peter barely has to look to dodge away from them.

Peter runs out of the building. He runs out into the street to the alleyway across the way, the blare of cars honking and traffic coming to a screeching halt behind him.

He runs until cacophony behind him is no longer audible among New York City’s buzz of activity. At that point, he crawls up a building until he’s at the roof.

There, he collapses. He sobs until he passes out.

…

Peter wakes with a jolt, rolling out of the way before a broom smacks into the place he was just in.

“You can’t sleep here!” says a stocky, old woman as she lifts the broom again.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” says Peter, as he backs away holding his hands up.

“Go! Go! Or I’ll call the cops!” Her eyes flick downward, and Peter becomes extremely conscious of the fact that his white sleeves are blood stained. As are his pants, but those are black at least. The woman’s fingers tighten on her broom. “Try anything and I _swear--_ ”

“I’m going, I’m going!” Peter cries out, running to the fire escape and jumping down it. He scrambles out of the alleyway, stopping and doubling back to avoid a busy street.

Sniffling, he rips off pieces of his sleeves until there’s no blood visible. He picks a bit at his knees, but there’s nothing to be done about those until he finds his backpack. Peter’s still in Midtown, so he’s not far from where he left it, but that also means that he’s not far from Norman Osborn.

Peter needs his backpack. Once he has his backpack, he’ll have his suit, his webslingers, and his tools. And a fresh change of clothes, thank God.

Most importantly, he’ll have Spider-Man.

…

There are so many cops around the Osborn residence. Peter avoids them by staying up high and in secluded areas until he finally, mercifully, gets to his backpack.

He unzips it, just a little bit, to make sure his suit is in there.

The red and blue fabric peaks out, and Peter releases a shaky breath.

He changes quickly, shoving his bloody clothes into the backpack even though Peter would give anything to be able to burn them. Slipping on his mask and securing his hold on his backpack, Peter shoots out a web and swings away from Norman Osborn.

It feels like running away.

 _I’ll be back,_ he swears to himself, _for Aunt May. For Harry. I won’t let Norman get away with this._

A wave of illness hits and he lands, unstable, on a rooftop.

 _He murdered Aunt May,_ he thinks.

He killed Aunt May. He killed her because of Peter.

Peter wraps his arms around himself, kneeling on the hard surface of the roof, trying to hold himself together. His chest feels like an open, gaping wound, a great big nothing inside of him. Just like after Uncle Ben. Just like when he first got the news about Aunt in that hospital.

Norman killed Aunt May because of Peter. He killed Harry because of Peter.

Uncle Ben died too because of Peter.

It was all Peter’s fault. They would all be _alive_ if it weren’t for Peter.

He sobs. Tears splash on the ground beneath him, and Peter curls in on himself.

Oh, god, Harry’s dead. Harry’s _dead._

Harry was his _friend_! He was only fifteen! He’s never going to study English in college or play that new Zelda game he was looking forward to or even _smile_ again--

Peter rips off his mask as he retches. He squeezes his eyes shut and all he can feel is Norman’s hot breath on his face. He retches again. He rubs his eyes, hard enough to hurt, and all he can see is Harry’s blank eyes staring up from his broken body. His skin crawls with the memory sensations of Norman’s hands on him, feeling so, so small.

He punches into the floor beneath him, his knuckles easily leaving indentations in the concrete of the roof.

 _What’s the point of having power,_ he thinks, _if he can’t save anyone?_ If someone like Norman can make him feel so powerless and helpless without lifting a finger?

Gasping and moving away from his own sick, he wonders about Norman’s superstrength and accelerated healing. A wave a calm washes over him; this, analyzing an opponent's powers and weaknesses, this is something he can do. Has done this before.

Spider-Man can deal with Norman as just an everyday superpowered villain. That’s much easier than the alternative. Think of Norman as just another villain. Spider-Man deals with men like him all the time. To Spider-Man, he’s no different from any of the other schmucks who get some powers and abuse them.

But he needs to hide first.

…

Peter’s first thought is to go to his shul, where he knows every nook and cranny and every face is familiar and the doors are always locked and guarded by security and Rabbi Hassan would help him like he was her own son.

But Norman would kill her, just like he killed Aunt May and Harry.

Peter can’t endanger her and the shul like that. He can’t bring a threat like that to them.

He swallows hard and crouches down, mask pulled down over his face once again. He should really avoid Queens in general. Just stay as far away as possible. Staying in Manhattan might be dumb, but not for Spider-Man.

Norman won’t be able to find him if he’s not Peter Parker anymore.

But… but he needs a place to sleep. Food to eat. Somewhere to get clean. People are going to notice if he smells. The thought makes his chest feel tight and the skin on his arms itch from dried blood.

The synagogue works with some homeless shelters. Aunt May volunteered at one of them once in a while. What was it called? It was in Chinatown. It was too close for comfort, but now that he remembered Harry’s blood was still on his skin, he desperately needs to wash it off. Scrub his skin until he can’t feel it anymore.

He thinks of Norman’s mouth against his, and Peter bites his own lip hard enough to replace the sensation. It feels good despite the pain or because of it, so he does it again.

FEAST! That was it. Run by Mr. Li. Aunt May was busy with her responsibilities as a Rabbi, but Peter can remember her liking Mr. Li and his organization. Peter went there a couple of times a few years ago to volunteer with Aunt May. Now that he’s thinking of it, he vaguely recalls Mr. Li’s face.

Not that Peter can ask Mr. Li for help. Or ask anyone for help. Norman would kill them. If Peter’s going to go anywhere, he can’t be seen.

So he won’t be seen.

...

Knowing the general neighborhood FEAST is in makes it easy enough for Peter to pick it out. He lands near a small vegetable garden on the roof, and once he makes sure no one else was there, he changes into the spare set of clothes he had in his bag.

Peter hesitates before he shoves the ruined dress shirt and pants into the backpack. He needs to get rid of them, wants to toss them or burn them or throw them into the Hudson, but he can’t risk his clothes being found with Harry’s blood on them.

Swallowing down a sudden rise of bile that comes up at the thought, Peter shoulders the backpack and pulls his hoodie up. He takes a few deep breaths to calm his nerves, but Peter can’t tell if he’s panicking or if all the emotion has been sucked out of him at this point.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now. Peter just knows that he wants to get clean. There were bathrooms with shower stalls on the first floor, he thinks. Aunt May said Mr. Li believes that hygiene is one of the most important things that they can do to help the homeless. Illnesses and health aside, hygiene helps preserve dignity and mobility in public spaces.

It’s late, and FEAST is quiet but not inactive. Peter walks down the hallway on the second floor that is illuminated by small lights. The auditorium downstairs is dark, and Peter can see the shapes of people in the small cots provided by the shelter.

He tiptoes down the stairs, ignoring the odd person lingering in the halls and avoiding eye contact. It takes nearly a full loop around the building, but he finds the Men’s showers and ducks inside.

The restroom isn’t empty, but there are stalls. Peter doesn’t take off his clothes until he’s safely inside of one, and throws his bag and clothes over the wall.

He crosses his arms over his chest while he stands out of the water spray, waiting for it to warm up. It takes a few minutes and it never gets quite hot enough.

It’ll have to do. He steps into the water spray and lets it run on his face for quite a long time.

By the time he gets out of the shower, Peter has scrubbed his face and arms so hard that they’re pink. He puts on his slightly damp clothes in the stall and makes sure his hood obfuscates his face as much as possible before he exits.

 _That wasn’t so bad_ , he thinks. _This will work._

The rumbling of the laundry room reminds Peter of the blood-stained clothes in his backpack. He hesitates, but he doesn’t want to linger longer than he has to.

He also thinks the kitchen, but his stomach rebels even at the thought of food. So instead, Peter heads back up to the roof. Once he finds a hidden spot on a roof somewhere, he can rest. Rest, and figure out what else he’s going to do.

 _One step at a time_ , his Aunt May used to tell him whenever he got overwhelmed before back when his only problems were schoolwork.

Peter will take one step at a time.

He finds a secluded, covered spot on a building not too far from FEAST that is pretty inaccessible to anyone who can’t fly or websling. The cover should prevent people who can fly from spotting him.

Staring at the floor, gray slate tiles speckled white with bird poop, Peter finds as clean a spot he can to lie down. The best he can do is only some white spots. They’re dry, at least. Peter tries to ignore the smell and the grime under him.

The dust makes his throat scratchy, and roof beneath him is hard and cold. He curls into his hoodie more. At least no one can see him like this. At least he’s alone now.

Peter hiccups, squeezing his eyes shut as tears leak out of his eyes.

He’s alone now.

…

Peter doesn’t remember falling asleep. His eyes tender and hot when he wakes up, and he scrubs at his face with his sleeve to get rid of the gritty feeling on his skin.

He sits on the roof with his arms curled around his knees, looking out at New York City, as he realizes that Peter Parker’s life is over. His parents died years ago and left him behind, his uncle and aunt got killed because of him, and Harry was murdered by his own father trying to protect Peter.

Rabbi Hassan and Ned would try to help if Peter asked, but Norman would kill them. He would just--kill them, like they were nothing.

Peter can’t let that happen. He won’t. He’ll never see either of them again if it means they’ll get to live.

And he won’t be able to see them. Norman has money and resources. He’ll be watching them, waiting for Peter to ask them for help. He’d threaten them if Peter ever shows up again. Norman already has. He’ll do it again to keep Peter in line. Norman might threaten them regardless. How does Peter stop him? How does he protect them?

Pressing his face into his knees, Peter considers. Threatening Rabbi Hassan and Ned won’t do any good if Peter isn’t around for the threat. There wouldn't be any point to it. Norman had a point to everything he did from the very beginning.

He breathes. Norman’s looking for Peter Parker. He can’t be allowed to find him for Rabbi Hassan’s and Ned’s sake.

So he won’t be Peter Parker anymore. He uncurls from his position and changes into his Spider-man outfit. It’s a bright, sunny school day, but Spider-Man doesn’t have class. Spider-Man can patrol at any time of the day.

…

Spider-Man avoids Midtown, focusing on his regular territory of Queens. He’s tired and sore from sleeping on a hard roof, so the highlights of his patrol is that he rescues a cat from a tree and helps a woman carry her groceries.

It’s not much, but it helps. It’s helping.

What doesn’t help is the news, which has Norman’s, Harry’s, and Peter’s faces splashed all over, with headlines reading _HARRY OSBORN MURDERED BY CLASSMATE_ and _MANHUNT CONTINUES FOR PETER PARKER, SUSPECT IN HARRY OSBORN MURDER_ .

Peter lingers on the roof by an newspaper stand, where the news is playing on a small TV. He can listen easily, even while out of sight.

“ _... I opened my home to him,”_ says Norman Osborn’s voice, which makes Peter’s chest tighten in unease. “ _My son’s classmate, a bright boy by all accounts, who just lost his only family. I was trying to do a good thing, to help him. And now my son is dead. Peter Parker_ killed _him. I only tried to help him, and this is how he repays me?”_

Peter shakes with rage as the radio host’s voice pops back in with “ _If anyone has any information on the whereabouts of Peter Parker, please call the police tip line, at--”_

He swings out of there. He finds some men following a girl and makes them stop.

It doesn’t make him feel better, but it’s all he has.

When night falls and Peter can only think of the hunger pains in his stomach, he returns to his roof and to FEAST. His first stop is the kitchens, eating what he can find right there. It’s not enough; ever since the spider bite, the amount of food he needs to eat felt like it doubled. But he can’t take that much food from the shelter. Other people need that food too.

Stomach still making demands but no longer painful, Peter leaves the kitchen. He’ll figure something out. He’ll have to.

He then heads to the laundry and showers. There are little travel packs of toiletries in the hallway, and Peter takes one with some guilt, but his need for a toothbrush is stronger. He hasn’t brushed his teeth since the morning before his presentation, and his mouth feels disgusting. He has to wait for his laundry to finish, so he uses a spare blanket in lieu of a hood to keep his face obscured.

And done. Peter dons his warm, clean hoodie fresh from the dryer, and finds comfort in the smell. He pulls the hood up, and hesitates over the blanket. It’s scratchy and thin, but it’s cold at night, especially high up on the roof.

“Peter?” says a voice as Peter indecisively clutches the blanket to him. He spins around, pulling the fabric tighter to his chest and hunching over.

Oh no. It’s Mr. Li.

Mr. Li, who definitely recognizes him.

Mr. Li walks towards him, and Peter backs into the small laundry room. Which is a stupid idea, there’s nowhere else for him to go from there. “Peter, it is you,” he says, “what are you _doing_ here? The news says you’re wanted for murder!”

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” says Peter weakly. “It’s late.”

Mr. Li frowns. “There was some work left to do,” and Peter notices that he’s missing his suit jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up. He might have been putting together toiletry packets like Peter grabbed. “Peter, what’s happened?”

“Please, I--I shouldn’t have come here.” If Mr. Li saw him, others might have too. The last thing Peter wants is to bring down Norman’s wrath onto FEAST. “You can’t tell anyone that you saw me.”

“They’re saying you _killed_ someone, Peter,” Mr. Li repeats, staring at him hard, his eyes demanding the truth. “I knew your aunt well enough to know she wouldn’t have wanted that.”

“I didn’t kill him! Mr. Osborn did!” Peter cries. To his frustration, tears fall down his cheeks. “Mr. Osborn, he--” Peter can’t say it. Doesn’t even know what to say. “I had to run. I had to. And now he’s blaming me for it.”

He hesitates to say more. Mr. Li would probably care that Norman had Aunt May killed, but what would he do with that information? It would give him some warning, maybe, about how dangerous Norman is, but Peter can’t prove it. Mr. Li wouldn’t be able to prove it either, and if he tried, it would only put him in danger.

Or he wouldn’t believe Peter and call the cops. And then Peter would end up right back under Norman’s control.

He swallows. “Please, Mr. Li, I--please believe me. Mr. Osborn can’t know I was here. I just needed to shower and wash my clothes, and then I was going to leave, I swear.”

“I won’t tell anyone you were here, Peter,” says Mr. Li. “I owe your aunt that much. Do you have a place to stay?”

Peter hesitates but nods. Mr. Li eyes narrow, clearly catching the lie. He purses his lips. Sighing, he says, “Okay, wait. Come with me.”

He leads him to his office. It’s large with a nice L-shaped desk in the center, a comfortable couch in the corner, windows around the room, and a picture on the wall of a man and a woman who looked related to Mr. Li in an ornate frame. Peter tenses when the door shuts, but tells himself, _It’s just Mr. Li, you know him._ He knew Norman Osborn too. _Aunt May liked him._ Mr. Li closes the window blinds of his office. “Would you like some tea?” Peter shrugs, and M. Li turns on his hot water boiler.

“Sit down, Peter. You must be exhausted,” Mr. Li’s eyes glance over him, frowning. “Peter, what _happened?”_

“I didn’t do it,” Peter says immediately and stops there. Overwhelming shame rises up, preventing him from going further.

The boiler switches off automatically, and Mr. Li pours them both some tea. When he hands Peter a mug, he just holds it to enjoy the warmth and breathes in the steam. It’s chamomile.

“I believe you, Peter,” says Mr. Li with his own mug in front of him. “I want to help you. But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what happened.”

His eyes well up, and he can’t stop the tears from coming. Once they start, Peter’s horrified to find himself full-blown sobbing. Mr. Li gets up, and there’s a box of tissues in front of him and a trash bin next to him. Peter mumbles his gratitude.

It takes some time and many tissues before Peter can speak again. “Harry and Norman fought,” he says with great effort, “and… Norman got mad, and he…”

“I see,” Mr. Li says mercifully when Peter can’t continue. He smiles at Peter. “Don’t worry, Peter. You’re safe here.” He opens a drawer in his desk, and pulls out a key ring. Peter watches uncomprehending as finagles with it until he gets a couple off, and hands them to Peter. “This is the key to the back door,” he explains, “and this is the key to my office. I keep the door locked whenever I’m not here, and I’m not here a lot. Feel free to use the couch whenever you need, okay?”

Peter is speechless.

“Mr. Li, this is--I can’t--the cops are looking for me,” protests Peter weakly. “And Norman is--he’s dangerous, he’ll hurt you if he finds out that you’re helping me.”

“I’m well aware that Norman Osborn is a dangerous man,” says Mr. Li, serious and solemn and Peter thinks briefly that he really does know what a monster Norman is. “But that’s a risk I’m willing to take,” says Mr. Li. Face grim, he leans forward on the desk. “That’s why I’m giving you keys. Try to be discreet. I can’t in good conscious leave you on the streets, but I serve a lot of people here.”

Peter can do discreet, especially with keys. “I can do that.”

Mr. Li holds his gaze for a moment and nods. “Here, I have some blankets in the closet. Let’s get you set up, alright? I won’t be in tomorrow, so just be sure to clean up and lock the door when you leave. And--”

“--be discreet,” Peter finishes for him. “I got it.” He sniffles, and the sound is much louder than he would like. “I can’t--I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I wish I could offer you more.”

“No, this is--this is already too much,” Peter tells him.

Mr. Li smiles at him. “I need to get back home. I told my wife I’d be back… oh, fifteen minutes ago. But I’ll check on you next time I’m here, okay?” As Peter nods, he adds, “Stay safe, Peter.”

He leaves and locks the door behind him. Peter sits down on the couch and takes a deep, shuddering breath. He should be on the roof of a building, freezing on the hard ground, but instead he has a place inside to sleep. He even has keys. He can keep sleeping on a couch instead of outside.

Just a few nights ago, he had a bed and his own bathroom. It never occurred to him that he would be so grateful for a couch.

Just a few months ago, he had family who loved him and tried to protect him. He never imagined so much would change so quickly.

Feeling tears sting his eyes again, he turns off the light of the office, and settles under the blanket on the couch to sleep.

He’s warm and comfortable and exhausted. Despite himself, sleep comes easily.


End file.
